A rainy night at Qiwuzhuang

The night hung heavy, and a thick sea fog rolled in from the endless horizon like a gray shroud, swallowing the cliffs and sky alike. The wind carried a scatter of cold rain, slanting against the outer walls of Mistveil Manor with a dull, rhythmic thud. The wooden window frames trembled under the pressure, as though they might shatter at any moment. Lin Qinglan pulled her coat tighter around her neck. Her fingertips brushed the damp fabric, and she could feel the chill seeping in through every seam. She stood at the end of the winding mountain road, gazing up at the mansion perched on the cliff—the Mistveil Manor. Its silhouette crouched in the dark like some great beast, motionless and brooding. Only a few dim lights flickered through the fog—cold glimmers, like the reflection in a predator’s eyes. A strange unease tightened in her chest. As a reporter for Urban Chronicles, Lin Qinglan had long been accustomed to desolation and darkness. Yet standing here, she felt an unfamiliar weight pressing against her heart. “The mountain road’s rough. If you’re coming, better get here before the storm,” she recalled the voice from that afternoon’s phone call—low, detached, as though muffled behind glass. The man on the other end was Lin Zhiyuan, the owner of Mistveil Manor. She took a steadying breath and reached for the iron gate. Rusted hinges groaned beneath her touch, letting out a long, metallic screech before the gate opened with a heavy creak. A faint oil lamp flickered in the doorway. An old man, hunched and thin, stepped forward. His face was half-lost in the shadows. “You must be Miss Lin,” he rasped. “Please, come in. The master’s been expecting you.” He was Sun Bo, the manor’s old servant. The stone path in the courtyard glistened under the lamplight. Rainwater pooled in the cracks, rippling like countless silent eyes. The drizzle wove thin curtains through the fog, slicing the yard into drifting fragments. When Lin Qinglan took her first step inside, water splashed against her trouser hem. She instinctively tightened her grip on the notebook in her hand—the only thing she truly trusted in this place. The door swung open, and the air inside hit her like a wave— the scent of damp wood and sea salt, the musty walls, and a faint trace of half-burned charcoal from the fireplace. She held her breath for a moment before forcing herself to steady. The main hall was dim. A few chandeliers hung low, their glass shades layered in dust, the light subdued to a pale yellow haze. Heavy oil paintings lined the walls—thick strokes, somber colors. The figures in them seemed to follow her with their eyes. By the fireplace sat Lin Zhiyuan. Around fifty, neatly dressed in a dark suit. His features were sharp, yet his expression carried a deep, habitual fatigue. When he looked up at her, his eyes were cool, unreadable. Then he simply nodded. “Miss Lin,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, “you’ve had quite a journey.” Lin Qinglan returned the nod. “Sorry to intrude.” He didn’t reply—only gestured for Sun Bo to take her upstairs. The corridor creaked underfoot. The walls were lined with old sconces casting pools of weak light on peeling plaster. With each step, the wind and rain murmured faintly through the cracks, as if the house itself were whispering. At the corner, an antique clock ticked softly, its hands edging toward midnight. Lin Qinglan paused, drawn by its sound. The clock face was coated in dust, yet the hands gleamed with stubborn precision—time, she thought, was still alive here, refusing to yield to the decay around it. Sun Bo coughed gently. “Miss, this way. The wind’s picking up.” She nodded and followed. The wooden banister was slick and cold beneath her fingertips. Halfway up, she glanced back— and for an instant, she thought she saw a pair of eyes watching from the far end of the hall. But when she blinked, there was nothing. Only the flicker of lamplight. Her room was small and bare—a wooden bed, a desk, a standing mirror. The curtains were heavy, breathing faintly in and out with the wind, as if the room itself had a pulse. Sun Bo set the oil lamp down. “Best keep the windows closed tonight, Miss Lin. The wind here’s no joke.” She gave a soft “thanks.” He nodded and left, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Silence filled the room. Lin Qinglan crossed to the window, fastening the latch tight. Raindrops streaked down the glass, blurring the world beyond. Through the water’s shimmer, she could just make out the ocean crashing against the cliffs—each wave like a muffled drumbeat. She sat at the desk and opened her notebook. Her pen moved across the page, leaving the first line: Mistveil Manor—adrift in the storm, like an island the world forgot. The sound of the pen scratching over paper echoed faintly. A shiver ran down her spine. She turned, heart thudding— but the only thing behind her was her reflection in the mirror, pale and tense, eyes full of questions she couldn’t quite name. The ticking of the clock carried on, steady and relentless, whispering one truth into the quiet: midnight was almost here. The storm showed no sign of easing. If anything, it was growing worse. The night sky was smothered under heavy clouds, and every now and then a streak of lightning tore through the dark, flooding Mistveil Manor in white light—only to let it sink again into pitch-black silence. Rain streamed from the eaves like falling curtains, shattering into beads as they struck the stone steps below. Lin Qinglan finished unpacking and opened her door. The corridor outside was dim, the flames in the wall sconces trembling in the wind, their glass shades rattling softly—click, click—as though they might go out at any moment. A faint tightness settled in her chest, but she pushed it down and started toward the stairs. From the landing, she could see into the parlor below. The fire in the hearth flickered restlessly, casting light that shifted across the faces of the people gathered there—now bright, now shadowed. There were four of them, each sitting apart, bound together only by a silence too dense to cut through. Lin Zhiyuan sat in his usual place, the high-backed chair beside the fire. His face was unreadable, as if the storm outside had nothing to do with him. Even the reflection of the flames in his eyes couldn’t warm that coldness. Beside him sat a middle-aged man, neat and sharp, dressed in a tailored suit that fit too precisely to be comfortable. His name was Zhou Jianguo, Lin Zhiyuan’s distant cousin. Lin Qinglan’s instincts as a reporter flared—this was not a simple man, nor a talkative one. Across the coffee table sat a young woman in her early twenties, her features delicate and bright. Her smile carried a trace of innocence, as if she was trying to chase away the gloom. This was Xu Nanke, Lin Zhiyuan’s niece. Despite the storm raging outside, she kept her hands wrapped around a cup of tea, the rising steam misting her lashes like a thin veil of fog. And then there was the last woman—a maid in a plain dress. She sat with her head bowed, fingers laced tightly together on her lap. Lin Qinglan could tell right away that she wasn’t part of the family. Her name, she would soon learn, was A Tao. There was something nervous, almost fearful, in the way her eyes flickered toward the stranger in their midst—the journalist. As Lin Qinglan descended the stairs, the air in the room seemed to still. She forced a polite smile. “Sorry to intrude. Good evening, everyone.” Xu Nanke was the first to speak. “Oh! You must be the reporter, right? Uncle mentioned someone would be coming today.” Her tone was light, as if she refused to let the storm dampen her cheer. Lin Zhiyuan gave a short nod. “This is my cousin Zhou Jianguo, my niece Xu Nanke… and the housemaid, A Tao.” There were polite nods, brief greetings, and then silence again. The storm outside roared louder than their words. After a moment, Lin Zhiyuan spoke. “The mountain road may be flooded by now. I’m afraid we’ll all have to spend the night here.” As if on cue, the fire snapped, sending up a spray of sparks. Xu Nanke blinked, then gave a small laugh. “Well… at least it’ll be lively for once.” But her smile didn’t quite reach anyone else’s face. Lin Qinglan noted every shift, every flicker of unease. Her gut told her this was no ordinary night—Mistveil Manor would not stay quiet for long. From the corner, the old clock ticked steadily, tick… tock… tick… tock—its hands creeping toward midnight. Each sound felt like the slow tightening of an invisible thread. Steam rose from the teacups, but it couldn’t chase away the chill that clung to the air. Lin Qinglan lifted her own cup, took a sip—bitter, faintly astringent. She hid her reaction and glanced up just in time to see A Tao still staring down at her hands, fingers twisting together as if trying to strangle a secret. A thunderclap split the air, shaking the window frames. Xu Nanke let out a small scream, then laughed breathlessly, pressing a hand to her chest. “God, that scared me.” Zhou Jianguo gave her a brief, indifferent look. He didn’t speak. His eyes, calm and cold, seemed to study everyone in the room—measuring, weighing. Lin Qinglan made a silent note: A storm outside. A locked house. A table of strangers. A journalist, an outsider, caught in the middle of them all. The hands of the clock inched closer to twelve. The ticking grew louder, sharper, filling her ears like a countdown to something unseen. Outside, the wind howled again, flinging rain against the glass. The lights flickered, shadows twisting and doubling on the walls—faces overlapping faces, familiar yet strange. Lin Qinglan’s pen moved across the page. Midnight approaches. The air grows heavier. The unease deepens.